


I don't have a title. No, seriously--this isn't a meta-commentary on the story or anything; I just don't have a title for it. Maybe I'll come up with one later.

by tzikeh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hallowe'en, dead bodies (but no one you know)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-27
Updated: 2010-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzikeh/pseuds/tzikeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I appear to have committed Sherlock fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't have a title. No, seriously--this isn't a meta-commentary on the story or anything; I just don't have a title for it. Maybe I'll come up with one later.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cereta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereta/gifts), [to an extent](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=to+an+extent).



The police are, naturally, forbidden to dress for the holiday. It would be disrespectful, to say the least, to arrive at a crime scene in the guise of a vampire or a six-foot-tall rabbit.

There's a double homicide in a posh townhome in Kensington. Both victims are lying at tortured angles on the floor, several yards from one another, in large pools of blood. The woman's jugular has been cut deep—far deeper than would be necessary to cause almost instantaneous death—and the man's femoral artery opened all along its length. There is no sign of forced entry, no evidence of any fingerprints other than the victims', no ligature marks or other indications of the bodies having been restrained, and it doesn't appear that anything in the home has been moved, let alone stolen.

After an exhaustive forensics exploration that uncovers no useful leads, Lestrade texts Sherlock, who arrives, with John, even sooner than Lestrade had expected. Neither is wearing anything out of the ordinary, though of course Lestrade would never have assumed otherwise. Sherlock wastes no time examining the room, the bodies, the blood pattern, and who knows what else.

"And who are you supposed to be, then, Freak?" Donovan mocks, half a smirk planted in one corner of her mouth.

He doesn't spare her a glance. "Sherlock Holmes," he says as he stabs at his phone, impatient to find the information that only he would recognize as relevant. "This isn't a double homicide; it's a murder-suicide."

Anderson goggles at him. "Both of the victims have been sliced up, but there's no _knife._ I might not be Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes, but I know that someone who's just committed suicide can't dispose of a weapon afterwards."

"The female victim is done up as Cleopatra, and the male as a bricklayer, though he hasn't made a particularly good job of either the hair or the location of the mortar stains, but I suppose," Sherlock scowls at his phone, "that he didn't bother with the necessary research to achieve accuracy."

Anderson stares at him, arms akimbo and brow beetled. "What could that possibly—"

Sherlock looks up from his phone in aggravation. "Anderson, you are by far the _dimmest_ being on this Earth, surpassing afghan hounds, domesticated turkeys, _dead_ domesticated turkeys, and the entire membership of the British National Party."

Lestrade steps over to John, catching his eye. "I thought Sherlock didn't know anything about politics."

John grins slightly. "I've been catching him up, here and there."

"Really? Huh. Well, good for you, then." After a moment of watching Sherlock fly about the crime scene, pointing at and explaining evidence only he can see, Lestrade grins. "Dressed as Sherlock Holmes. Naturally. And I suppose you're John Watson, then."

"Conscience, keeper, mediator, chief cook and bottle-washer.... several other identities I'm sure I can't think of at the moment. I suppose I might have worn a tall stack of hats."

John turns his attention back to where Sherlock is going on in that rapid-fire way he does. John believes that he truly can't be bothered to slow down, because he assumes no one would understand half of what he sees even if he did, but he's learned that he has to at least make the effort to explain his findings. Unfortunately, he's going to have to explain them all over again to Lestrade, and Sherlock hates having to repeat himself. John predicts a long night of being dragged all over London while Sherlock rants about the stupidity of the police force, the idiocy of the general public, and Hallowe'en. Though, to be fair, he had been going on about Hallowe'en for some time already before Lestrade gave him something else to do. John hadn't been listening much, but he had caught one interesting bit.

"Sherlock says that people think they're pretending to be someone else on Hallowe'en, but what they're really doing is giving a small glimpse into who they truly are."

After a moment, Lestrade nods. "I suppose it could be. So, he—"

"Is 'dressed up' as exactly who he is. Yes. And I'm... well, I'm exactly who I am." He pauses, considering whether or not to share the rest of Sherlock's thoughts on the subject of costumes. "Sherlock said he knew exactly which costumes each of you would have chosen."

"Oh yes?" Lestrade grins. "What was mine, then?"

John winces. "Erm, I think it's probably best that I don't tell you. And _don't_ ask Sherlock, because you know he will tell you, at length."

Lestrade sighs, but after a moment, he leans in and asked quietly, "Donovan and Anderson?"

John smiles wickedly. "Oh, _those_ I'll tell you."


End file.
